Open Letter to My Dad

Dear Dad,
It's been a long time. I'm not saying that to be an asshole or anything, but it's been 11 years since I got that phone call at 6:30 in the morning on November 12, 2001.

We knew it was November 11 when you left, because there's no way you made it to midnight that day. You worked around the farm most of the day, and I know for you, that day was probably about as perfect as you could get. In a place that you loved, doing the things that you loved, working around the farm, cooking up some venison, having a few

and some of your favorite deer camp "horse dervies" which no one in their right mind would eat

By the way, that pronunciation died with you. But I'm bringing it back. Along with the camel joke.

For the first time since you left, November 11 was Veteran's Day for me. I didn't think much about it being your last day. And I know you wouldn't want it any other way. "Ten years is a long time to grieve," you'd say.

Like almost every other thing you said, you'd probably be right.

But the thing is, there's not a day goes by that I don't think about you. Everyone misses you and still talks about you like you're still here, even eleven years later. That's strong, Dad.

Dad with his little buddy, Levi, sporting the do-rags.

I'll let you know that I finally visited you. Twice now. The first time, I lasted about 15 seconds. But it broke the ice. This past Memorial Day, I went with Toby, his buddy, Mike and Ashley and we drank a beer with you. For you, I guess is the more appropriate term.

I still haven't been down to the farm. I may never go, even though I know it is a special place you chose because you wanted to retire there someday. Someday just came way too fast.

I know what you'd say about that, too, Dad: "I wanted this to be a place where you boys could go and take your families. You should go."

But I really only know it as the place where you died and would only know it without you. Toby and Duke know the place with you there. They got to see how you looked at it and talked about it.

I know that's where your spirit is. Danny has said he's seen you there. I hope he's right. But he knows the place with you there, too. I think that's why I've been reluctant to go: I'm afraid I won't see you there. It would just be the place where your journey ended and I don't want that. Hopefully someday, I'll be able to make that trip and walk your land with you.

I miss the way you'd laugh. The way you'd grin, with the glint in your eyes because you knew something funny was coming. There was that snort thing you'd do. Then three or four chortles that could be mistaken for a coughing fit. Now I'm thinking that watching you laugh is the reason I try to make people laugh.


I think what I miss most about you is how damn philosophical you were. I'm not really sure that others know that about you. But there was just so much I learned about how to be a man shooting pool with you. You taught me more about life playing pool and drinking a few beers than all of my professors put together. You were my greatest teacher. I want you to know that.

I guess I've come to the reason for this: I'm working through some things that I need to change about myself. I don't have your patience, and I sorely wish I knew your secret. I don't have your wisdom, even though I'm as old now as you were when I graduated high school. I'm still not half the man you were, but I'm trying, Dad. I'm trying.

So for me, November 11 was Veteran's Day. I'm fairly certain you'd be comfortable with that. But your birthday's coming up next weekend. That's always been harder for me. I don't think November 19 will just be Saturday.

Love you,
Number one son (I even remember the Charlie Chan reference)
Joel

What I learned playing catch

I put this in my Facebook profile a couple of weeks ago. It may be an old adage, or a variation of one, or it may be something I just made up. In the last two weeks, I realize how true it is.

"The more I become like my parents, the better I like myself."

I like simple things now. A fire outside on the patio. Cooking out. Having a beer with friends. A memory long forgotten, brought back by a song on the radio. Here's one that I never really considered until the recent bout of warm weather...

Playing catch.

It's so simple. And I don't mean to get all "Field of Dreams" on everybody, but bear with me. (That was a beautiful thing, though, at the end. Makes me cry every time.)

When he's in the mood, Tristan will join Aidan and me outside to play. He's more difficult to play catch with, for a few different reasons, most of which stem from his autism. He has a VERY short attention span. Shiny things and squirrels and cars and the dog and sticks and grass and rocks and dirt and other things all tax his concentration. He likes to play, but it seems like he always wonders about doing something else.

He gets frustrated when he doesn't do something well. He doesn't get very far away because he wants to catch and throw every ball just right. When he misses, or more accurately, when I fail to make it land squarely in his glove, he lets out a little scream while he's chasing after it. But when he catches the ball, he has an absolutely priceless look on his face. He gets a little too close to throw the ball back, and I've taken a few unfortunate hits, but he's fun to watch.

Aidan, however, is my catch-playing partner. We've been playing every day since it got warm. We even play in the morning while we're waiting for the bus. I can't help but think about Ralphie's kid brother in "A Christmas Story" who can't move his arms while I'm watching Aidan try to throw while wearing a winter coat. But he's so eager to play catch whenever we can, even in the cold.

He's hard to teach because he's left-handed, but like everything else, he's good at it. He can really throw pretty hard. He doesn't catch particularly well yet, because he's just a little bit afraid of the ball. I think he's got "pitcher" written all over him.

Most of the time, we don't talk, and there's a rhythm that we get into, and it's just nice to watch him. He uncorks a wild one every now and then and we have to crawl into the bushes to get it. Or he'll miss one and has to chase it into the street.

Occasionally, he asks questions and a few days ago, he came up with one that is really the point of this whole story. "Did you play catch with your Dad, Daddy?"

His question made me stop what I was doing for a moment. I hold my Dad in high regard, and I learned a lot from him, but my Dad was a long-haul trucker when I was a kid.

I held the ball when I answered his question so Aidan would fully understand. "We played catch sometimes, but Grandma Shirley was who really taught me to play catch."

"Gramma Shirley played catch?" he said, his voice getting really high on the end, as it is prone to do when he's surprised by something.

"You bet. She was really good. And she was a good teacher," I said.

"Do you think Gramma Shirley will play catch with me next time we're in Wichita?"

The thought of that made me laugh. "Suuuure, buddy. Grandma Shirley would LOVE play catch with you."

Sorry, Mom.

Oh. And thanks.